In the Heat of the Night

you something. Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to, but the whole town is wondering. What goes with this black cop you got working?”
    “Virgil?” Sam asked. “What about him?”
    “Well, how come?”
    “He’s a murder expert,” Sam said. “He happened to be on hand and the chief put him to work. That’s all.”
    “Must be pretty hard on you,” the manager ventured.
    “Not on me, it isn’t,” Sam answered shortly. “He’s smart as hell and he got me out of a jam.” Sam was instantly proud of himself for standing up for the man who had stood up for him.
    “Yes, but he’s a nigger,” the manager persisted.
    Sam put his hands flat on the table and looked up. “Virgil isn’t a nigger. He’s colored, he’s black, and he’s a Negro, but he isn’t a nigger. I’ve known a lot of white men who weren’t as smart as he is.”
    The manager made peace at once. “Some of ’em are smart, I know. One of them even wrote a book. Here comes your steak.” The manager saw to it that it was served with gestures. He even personally brought the bottle of catsup. Then he told himself that Sam Wood should be excused for anything he said because he had just been through a hell of an experience.
    When he had finished eating, Sam drove home and threw up the windows to clear out the musty air inside. He got out his uniform and checked it over. Then he took a shower, ran over his chin with an electric razor, and lay down to get some rest.
    He remembered briefly Virgil’s promise that he was to arrest a murderer that night. It seemed a little unreal as the desire for sleep grew on him. His mind went blank and he slept deeply until his alarm jangled at eleven.

    * * *

    Virgil Tibbs was waiting for him in the lobby of the police station when he got there. Sam checked in as he always did; the desk man struggled to pretend that nothing had happened. With his report sheet under his arm, and the keys to his patrol car in his hand, he nodded to Tibbs. “Let’s go,” he invited.
    They set out together as they had once before. “Where to, Virgil?” Sam asked.
    “You’re doing the driving,” Tibbs answered. “Anywhere you like. It doesn’t make any difference to me. Only let’s stay away from the Purdy place tonight. I don’t want to go through that again.”
    Sam asked the question that had been in his mind for the last hour. “Do you think the murderer of old man Mantoli will be out tonight?”
    “I’m almost sure of it,” Tibbs replied.
    “Then maybe we had better check up on the Endicotts, see that everything is all right.”
    “I’m sure she is,” Virgil answered. “Go up if you like, but there is better reason to stay down here.”
    “Do you want to tell me about it now? I’m supposed to arrest the guy, you said.”
    “I’d rather not, Sam. If I did, you might betray something at the wrong time. Keeping something to yourself to the point where everything you say, every movement you make, is still just the same as though you didn't have that knowledge is very hard to do. Until the time comes, the fewer who know the better.”
    “Can’t we do something about it now?”
    Tibbs looked out the window. “Sam, without giving offense, would you trust me and let me handle it? I promise you you’ll be there when it happens. In fact, I’m trying to arrange it so you will make the arrest.”
    “OK, Virgil.” Sam was disappointed.
    The night had never seemed so long. They talked 0 f California and what it was like on the Pacific Coast, where Sam had never been. They discussed baseball and prizefighting. “It’s a tough way to earn a living,” Tibbs commented. “I know some fighters and what they have to take is pretty rugged. It isn’t all over when the last bell rings. When the cheering stops, if there is any, it’s down to the dressing room, where the doctor is waiting. And when he has to sew up cuts over the eyes or in the mouth, it hurts like hell.”
    “Virgil, I’ve wondered how come there are so many colored fighters? Are they just better, or is it maybe easier for them?”
    “If it’s any easier I don’t know how. I talked to a fighter once who had had a bout in Texas. He took an awful whipping although he fought hard; he was overmatched. Anyhow, when the doc came around to fix him up, the needle in his bruised flesh hurt so much he let out a yell. Then the doctor told him he’d presumed it didn’t hurt him because he was a Negro.” Sam flashed back mentally to a